This is Your Life
by KatZen
Summary: A father recalls the past with each of his sons.


**Disclaimer: ****The Thunderbirds do not belong to me. They are the property of Gerry Anderson and his affiliates. No money or personal profit is made from this. Any original characters do belong to me, however.**

**AN: This story does relate, quite a bit, to most of my previous works – you could think of it as part of the saga, drawing from life before IR, the time span between my first fanfic and 'A String of Miracles'. However, if you haven't read them in order, don't worry – hopefully the story should still make sense. I like to think of this as the cliff-notes version of the saga so far, tying everything that's happened into one not-so-short short. I'm going in age order, so I'll publish one for each of the boys, within the constraints of real life. **

**Having said that, I feel this needs a warning. Depending on your view of the Tracys, there may be severe OOC-ness encased within each short. For those readers that like to think of the Tracys as the picture of perfection, this may not be the right story for you. My portrayal of the Tracys are imperfect and flawed – they make serious mistakes, and have learnt from them and grown from them and moved on with their life instead of wallowing in the past. This one is, in my opinion, the darkest of them all, so it should only go uphill from here.**

**Should probably mention that there are some brief references to substance abuse. I've tried to keep it as mild as possible, but it can be a painful subject for those who have been affected by it.**

**Okay… I think I've rambled on for long enough… hope you enjoy… **

This is Your Life

I stand in the doorway. I can see him; make out the fuzzy shape of him, pacing the length of the living room, three week old son balanced in his arms. I can hear him whisper to my youngest grandson, but I can't make out what words are being murmured over the baby's ear-splitting shrieks.

Thank God the bedrooms in the villa are soundproofed; otherwise no-one would get any sleep.

Taking pity on the man, I alert him to my presence, offer my services by taking the infant out of my weary son's arms and holding him close to my chest, so that the baby can hear the steady syncopation of my heartbeat. For some babies, and I've had five, so I would know, this little trick works wonders. My grandson doesn't stop crying, but he quietens down.

My son, on the other hand, slumps into the sofa, rests his elbows on his knees, buries his head in his palms and breaks down. His shoulders rise up and down with each silent sob, even though he bravely tries to hold it in, hold it together.

I sigh internally. I had hoped this had changed, especially after the rescue three days ago, where an underground transportation system had been trapped as the tunnels collapsed. I know this son had to deliver twins by himself, and I know that the new mother had commented that my son would be an excellent father. I know all of that, and I had hoped that would have boosted his confidence, his belief in himself and his ability as a dad, but it doesn't seemed to have happened.

Shifting my grandson so that he rests in the crook of my elbow, I place my other arm over my son's shoulders.

"I can't do this any more," he mutters into his hands, fingers gripping his curls so hard that they turn white. "I can't get Nick to be quiet. I can't get him back to sleep. Nothing I do with him is right. I'm a failure. A complete and utter failure."

I shake my head, knowing this is not true, not after everything this particular son has overcome. "You'll get there, son. You will. You just have to give it time"

My son looks at me, incredulously, as though what I've said is completely incomprehensible, mutters something again and buries his head back into his hands.

"Let me tell you a story," I begin. "It starts off with two people. Two teenagers, to be specific." I pause, chuckle ruefully. "She, Lucille, or Lucy, as she liked to be called, was the knight in shining armour. He was the damsel in distress."

A small smile tugs at my son's cheek. "I'm listening."

"Well, Lucille and Jeff talked, in the beginning, discovered that they had several things in common, and formed a friendship. This was fine, for both of them, in the beginning. But then, Jeff wanted more than just a close friendship with her. As much as he tried to deny it, he was falling for her. So, mustering up all the courage a nineteen year old had, he asked her out on a date. Luckily for him, she accepted. Four years after that, Lucy and Jeff were married, and another two years after their marriage, they welcomed their first child into this world."

"I see where this is going."

I nod in approval. "I'm glad you do. My point will become very apparent at the end. So, sit back, relax, and let's see if Daddy's bedtime story can send my son and yours back off to sleep."

"Yes, please, send me back to sleep. I really need some."

I smile, nod my head. "Well, their first child, he was quite a lazy boy. He was due on April 1st. And he would have been born on that day, had he not decided to stop moving halfway through, leaving his poor mother in seventy-two hours of agony. And that wasn't the worst of it; he couldn't be born in a hospital, like a normal child. He just had to choose to be born in a barn, and I mean that literally. His mother put his tardiness down to the fact that he was a first born, and most first children are born late anyway. His father stands by his 'lazy son' conclusion.

"So, their little boy was born on April 4th 1999, with a dusting of unruly, curly, dark brown hair and wide, huge, deep blue eyes."

"I know what I looked like, Dad," my son interjects. "I've seen the photo albums too, y'know. And I'm really not that lazy anymore."

I ignore him and continue telling him the tale. "After a lot of bickering and fighting, they named him by placing prospective names into a hat and asking his grandfather to draw one out. They named him Scott Malcolm Carpenter Tracy." I sigh in reminiscence. Closing my eyes, I can see the scowl on Lucille's face as she realised that Malcolm had also made it as a middle name. "Boy, was your mother mad when she found out I had made an alteration to the name slip."

Scott laughs, and the knot in my chest loosens. It feels good to hear my son laugh. I haven't heard it in a while, and I realise just how much I miss the sound.

"As well as being lazy, you were also a bit of an attention-seeker."

Scott splutters, straightening up indignantly. "What? I am not, and I have never been a bloody attention-whore!"

"Scott!" I berate my son loudly, momentarily forgetting the infant cradled in my arms. Nick startles, whimpers, his arms and legs squirming underneath the blanket he's been wrapped in. "Watch your language! Young, impressionable baby in the room. It wouldn't do for Daddy to teach him bad words before he turns eighteen."

Scott sighs, nods and takes his son back into his arms, apologising to the baby quietly. "Well played, sir. Please continue with the story."

"Thank you." I pause, trying to regain my train of thought. "As I was saying, you were an attention-seeker. You turned heads – everywhere you mother and I went, people would stop and stare at you in the pram. It was your eyes and your smile – the killer combination, Scott. You'll be pleased to know you haven't outgrown that. And your love for the sky was evident, even at that young age. We could set you in your car seat on the balcony and you would stare at the sky, transfixed by the blue colour. Every time a plane streaked across the horizon, your eyes would follow, your head would turn and you would stretch those little arms out as far as you could trying to grasp at the plane in the sky. You haven't outgrown that either."

I pause again, pushing a stray curl out of Scott's eyes.

"About one and a half years after you were born, John arrived. We were so worried about sibling rivalry between the two of you – after all, how would a toddler cope when the undivided attention of his parents are split unequally? But we needn't have worried. Your mother helped you hold John when you visited him after he was born, and in that moment, we knew. We knew that you would love, care, support and protect your little brother, and the ones that came after him. It was in your eyes.

"Time flew by and the family expanded to a point. Each year, we celebrated as everyone made a successful rotation around the Sun. But it was short lived. Tragedy struck the family." I swallow past the lump in my throat; turn my head away so Scott can't see the watery film that coats my eyes. Scott's never seen me cry before – at least, I don't think he has – and I have no intention of changing that now.

"It's okay, Dad." This time, Scott's the one who's putting his arm over my shoulder, offering me comfort. "We don't have to continue."

"No." I close my eyes, squeeze them shut, prevent the tears from flowing. "You need to hear this. I need you to hear this."

I breathe, one deep breath in after another, steading myself, composing myself.

"Jeff… I threw myself into work, as I know you're aware, to the point of ignoring my family. It was one of the worst mistakes I've made. I left it to my eleven year old son to pick up the pieces of a shattered family and somehow superglue them back together again. I left Scott to deal with the family, and I shouldn't have done that. I robbed you of your childhood, with my absence and our money problems at the time. I'm sorrier than you could ever imagine. Each day, I wake up and regret the way I treated you and the boys during that time."

"Dad…" Scott trails off, cuddling Nick closer to him, drawing comfort and strength from the solid weight in his arms. I know this part of the past hurts him too, in more ways than one. "Don't do this to me, please."

I hold up a hand. "Just let me finish. I did much wrong by you in that time and I know it. If I could turn back the clock and relive my life, there are many things I would do differently…"

Realising I've digressed off topic, I shake my head; run my hand through my grey hair.

"You held it together for two years before things deteriorated further. By thirteen, you were shooting up in times of stress, just to cope with the heavy burden I had dumped on your shoulders, just to escape, as you told me later. At fourteen, drugs became a regular part of your life, hadn't it?"

It's not a rhetorical question, but Scott doesn't respond. He, too, is trapped in a past he has no inclination to remember. The past hurts him, haunts him to this very day, even though it occurred almost two decades ago. I can understand why, but I can't relate to it.

"Bit of a wake up call for me," I say, nudging Scott slightly. "Listening to the call about your overdose, rushing to the hospital, seeing you hooked up to all those machines, praying for you to _just wake up_… it made me realise what was important. And it wasn't money, or work, as I used to believe. It was you, all five of you. That was all I needed, really."

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Scott rubbing at his elbow, where the vein runs back to his heart. I wonder briefly if he's aware of his actions, or if this is a subconscious response.

"I know that's partly why you refuse to take drugs of any kind now, even medicinal ones, unless you absolutely have to."

Scott nods mutely in agreement.

"Anyway, after you were discharged, my mother gave me what I like to call the verbal tongue lashing. She sat me down, like she had when I was a teenager, and gave me a three hour lecture on how family was the most important thing in a man's life. Like most mothers, she was right. She then suggested that you stayed with her while you recovered. She would be able to keep an eye on you, prevent you from hanging out with unsavoury characters – all the things I was incapable of doing. How could I say no? I was looking out for your welfare."

"I know you were, Dad." Scott's voice is low and clipped, as though he has to force the words from his throat. "I resented you at the time for that, but I don't anymore. I'd probably do the same thing if I was in your position."

Glad that there are no hard feelings anymore, I pull Scott in for a gentle sideways hug. "Can I ask you when you reached this epiphany?"

"As soon as my eldest was born."

"Well, your Grams said she'd get you back on track and she did. It took two, almost three years, with the help of Grams, the girl who would eventually become your wife and her brother."

"Yeah, they were… amazing during that time. I kept trying to push them away, but they refused to move. The harder I pushed, the more steadfast they were. Tash especially. Still is wonderfully headstrong when she wants to be."

On a spur of the moment, I lift my head up towards a door and see a shorter figure leaning against the doorframe. "Everything okay, Tash?" I call out softly, patting the sofa; an invitation for her to sit down.

"Yeah, everything's fine," she replies, cuddling into Scott as she sits, wrapping one arm around his waist. "Just missed my human heater of a husband and my son."

Scott rests his cheek on the top of her head. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to learn about a childhood you never talk about. And everything else was stuff I already knew. I'm your wife; you can't hide much from me."

"You're my wife; I can't hide _anything_ from you," Scott corrects, pressing his lips to the temple of her forehead.

I can't help but smile. After all Scott's been through in the past, he is the son who most thoroughly deserves a chance of happiness. From where I'm seated, it looks like he's found his happiness with the red-haired woman next to him.

"You asked the girl, Tash, out when you were sixteen, didn't you, Scott?" I continue, regardless of my new audience.

"One of the better decisions I've made in life," Scott smiles, looking down at the person in question.

"You fell completely and utterly in love with her, up to the point of falling head over heels in love literally." Both I and Scott grin at the memory. "You're the only man I've ever met who's fallen down stairs after kissing his girl after a date."

My eyes mist over again. "I knew you would ask Tash to marry you one day, so I gave you your mother's engagement ring. You stored it in a safe, locked away until the time was right. Much to my discontent, and yours, the relationship dissolved. "Shortly after that, you left to complete your degree at Oxford, before being shipped out with the Air Force. Let me tell you, Scott, your graduation from Yale and Oxford with honours, made me prouder than words can express. It was a statement to the amount of effort, resilience and perseverance you had applied to turn your life around."

Scott nods in agreement.

"You served in the Air Force, received medals for bravery, valour and a smattering of other awards. And then, I gave you a job proposition. International Rescue."

I pause, again, wondering if I should divulge anymore on this stream of consciousness. "In all honesty, I was most reluctant to approach you. Not because I thought you wouldn't be capable of the job, but because you had carved a stellar career out for yourself. You had dreams and aspirations of having your own family one day – don't tell me you didn't. I'm your father, and I knew you did. Joining International Rescue would put the kibosh on your plans."

Scott contemplates this. "Probably right in that respect."

"Still," I say, brushing another stray curl out of his eyes. His hair's growing long again, reminding me of Lucille, and the way her hair would fall into her eyes at regular intervals. "It all worked out in the end, didn't it? You left the Air Force with an honourable discharge, became my Field Commander and made a difference."

"Not for long," Scott pointed out, quirking one eyebrow up in that way of his. And he does have a point. Six months after that, Scott and I had taken a walk on the beach, as per his request. He and I sat down on the sand of the beach, and he told me, quite bluntly, as I recall, that he had pancreatic cancer. I remember the way the ground trembled beneath the weight of my body as the news sunk in. It was a reminder that my son wasn't invincible, like a superhero, as I wanted to believe. None of my sons were, or are invincible.

"Still," I tap Scott on his kneecap. "You overcame that little hurdle in the end, didn't we? Both times, if I remember correctly. I presumed it was because you weren't ready to leave your family. You weren't ready to stop looking after them, were you?"

"No, I wasn't. Still not ready… I mean, its family, Dad, my family. I'll always want to look out for them, no matter how annoying those brothers of mine get at times."

I chuckled once more. It was such a Scott-answer, and I couldn't imagine hearing anything else coming from Scott as a response.

"Do you want me to continue with the story?"

Scott nods. Even though he knows his life story, I guess he enjoys hearing a different perspective. I guess he revels in learning and appreciating how I see him, progressing from a baby to a child and then a teen before becoming a man, and most importantly, growing as a son.

"One day, about three years ago, I gave you some shore leave."

"You enforced it onto me, actually," Scott sniffs, flicking his blue eyes briefly at me. "There's a difference between the two."

I fold my arms defensively. "Aren't you glad I forced the down time on you, Scott? After all, without it, you would have never had gotten back with Tash."

Scott considers this, head tilting to the side, before conceding defeat.

"And if you hadn't rekindled your relationship with her, you would never have stunned the female population of the world by getting married, and you would never have had your three kids. Am I right?"

"You've summed it up pretty well, Dad." Scott paused. "So, now that we've chronologically waded through my life, what was your point?"

"My point is, Scott," I explain, "is that you are a success with Nick. Taking care of people, it's something you do; it's something you've always done. You have a natural ability for it. So, just because things look pretty bleak right now, don't sell yourself short. You're more capable with this than you think you are."

I stand up, yawn and stretch, sneaking a look at my grandson, finally asleep. "By the way," I add as I saunter to the door to my quarters. "Nick is most definitely your son, and all resemblance aside, I'll tell you why. When you were Nick's age, Scott, you used to cry twice as much as he does."

Hoping Scott's feeling more confidant with his son than he was two hours ago, I head back to my room, leaving him sitting on the sofa, contentedly holding his son and wife close to him.


End file.
